


Unexpected

by sinnerforhire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerforhire/pseuds/sinnerforhire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, being raised from perdition has some unexpected side effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

"I'm gonna kill that fucking angel."

"I don't think you can do that," Sam calls from the bathroom.

"Then I'm gonna yank the feathers out of his goddamn wings one by one," Dean grumbles, rubbing at his chest with the ineffectual mitten. "It's only fair. He did this to me."

"He couldn't have known," replies Sam. "He probably thought he was doing you a favor. You sure liked the re-virginity part."

The water shuts off. Sam appears in the doorway. "It's ready. If I take those things off, are you gonna scratch yourself bloody again?"

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. "No, _Mom_, I'll be good."

Sam looks dubious, but walks over and cuts the duct tape keeping the fleece mittens in place on Dean's hands. Dean immediately clenches his fists and grits his teeth and tells himself that he's twenty-nine fucking years old and he can certainly control himself for the 15 seconds it'll take to get from his bed to the bathroom where a nice, tepid oatmeal bath is waiting for him.

He climbs off the bed but his legs don't want to hold him and he wobbles like a newborn colt. But Sam's right there, gently grasping Dean's shoulders, slipping one arm around Dean's back and guiding him slowly, incrementally, to the bathroom door. He sits Dean down on the closed toilet lid and lays the back of one massive hand on Dean's forehead. "Shit, I think your fever's back up." He reaches for the first aid kit that sits open on the vanity sink. The digital thermometer beeps cheerfully as it's turned on. Dean glares but accepts the instrument under his tongue. It beeps twice and Sam snatches it up, frowning deeply at the reading. "Fuck. What'd I give you last?"

Dean scrunches his forehead. "Uh, Tylenol, I think."

"Okay." Sam replaces the thermometer and pulls out a bottle of Motrin. He shakes four tablets into his hand and runs water into the cup on the vanity. He hands everything to Dean, who sighs and swallows the pills with much eye-rolling.

Sam perches on the edge of the bathtub. "I gotta make this a little colder," he says, apology written on his face. He twists the faucet and a small stream of cold water splashes into the milky oatmeal mixture. A couple minutes later, Sam shuts the water off and turns back to Dean. "I'm gonna turn my back, but I'm not leaving this room."

It's a testament to how miserable and exhausted Dean is that he doesn't question or make any smart remarks. He just nods and motions for Sam to look away so he can get his boxers off. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye until Dean is settled in the water.

"It's fucking freezing, you bastard," Dean snaps.

"You've got a temperature of 103. You wanna cook your brain?"

Dean doesn't respond. Sam hears gentle splashing and the occasional soft sigh. About ten minutes later, he speaks up. "You about done?"

"Yeah."

"The bottom might be slippery because of the oatmeal stuff, so be careful." Sam stands up, gets in a ready position just in case. He hears Dean open the drain and watches Dean get out of the bathtub out of the corner of his eye.

Dean gingerly dries off and wraps the towel around his waist. "You gonna let me out anytime soon?" Sam steps out into the motel room. He watches Dean walk past him and notices him looking a little steadier; he hopes the bath helped bring the fever down. Dean gets into a clean pair of boxers and sits on the edge of his bed. He looks from the abandoned mittens to his brother's stern face. "Sammy, I promise I won't scratch. Don't make me wear those stupid things again."

Sam looks conflicted. "We'll try it for an hour. If you don't scratch for an hour, you can keep them off the rest of the day."

Dean holds out as long as he can. The first ten minutes, before the oatmeal starts to wear off, are a piece of cake. After that, it gets slowly but steadily worse. He squirms and twists under the thin sheets, occasionally letting out a strangled gasp or groan.

After fifteen minutes of listening to Dean try to wrestle his urges into submission, Sam's had enough. "I'm going out for more supplies. Just don't draw blood, okay?" Dean grunts; Sam chooses to take it as assent.

The drugstore isn't far from their motel--thank God for small favors. He buys the biggest bottle of calamine lotion they offer and two large bags of cotton balls. The teenage cashier looks at him a little strangely, but Sam feels no need to explain.

He gets back to the room and finds Dean lying stock-still on the bed, on top of the sheets, with his eyes squeezed shut. Sam recognizes it as the pain-control technique Dad taught them both when they were in grade school. Sam sets the bag down quietly, gets the lotion and cotton balls ready and sets the whole lot on the table between the beds. "Dean?"

Dean exhales harshly and looks up. "Not once, Sammy. Not once."

Sam smiles at him. "Good job, man." He picks up the bottle of lotion. "I didn't think you'd mind the extra help."

Dean bolts upright. "Gimme that."

Sam sits back. "Just let me do your back first, and then you can go nuts." Sam takes a cotton ball and soaks it in lotion. He dabs it on a few of the myriad blisters on Dean's shoulders. It looks disgusting; Sam can't imagine how it must feel--he doesn't remember having it himself, as he was only two and a half years old. He read about it on the Internet when Dean first noticed the spots on his arm, and it didn't sound fun.

He finishes Dean's back and hands everything to him. Dean takes it gratefully. "Try not to make too much of a mess," Sam cautions as he goes to wash his hands. When he comes back, he notices Dean swaying a little. "Dean? You okay?"

Dean shrugs and doesn't look up. Sam kneels down in front of him, forces Dean to meet his gaze. Dean's eyes are glassy and unfocused, his eyelids heavy. His brows are drawn in slightly and his jaw is clenched tight, which means he's got a headache bad enough to be making him feel sick to his stomach. Sam sighs and puts a hand on Dean's knee. "Hey, you think you could drink some water and take a nap? That might make your head feel better."

Dean thinks about it for a minute. "Yeah, okay, but bring the trashcan over here. Just in case."

Sam gets up, grabs a bottle of water and the trashcan from the other side of the room, and returns to Dean. Sam uncaps the water for him, places it in Dean's shaking hand. Dean drinks half of it and hands it back to Sam, who frowns and refuses to take it. Dean grumbles a little but finishes it off. Dean lies back, arms trembling as though they can barely hold his weight, and Sam covers him up to his waist with the sheet and picks up the forgotten bottle of lotion. "Sleep. I'll finish this."

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean mutters sleepily. "This sucks. But you're kinda awesome."

Sam grins. "I try."


End file.
